


Belonging

by Shirokokuro



Series: If That Happens, I'll Catch You [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alfred Pennyworth is a Good Grandpa, Angst, Batdad, Bruce "What is Awkwardness" Wayne, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Fluff, Gen, School, Tim and cats, Tim is awkward and trying his best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 19:17:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18723292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shirokokuro/pseuds/Shirokokuro
Summary: Tim just wants someone to come home to.





	Belonging

It's one of those colors Tim is trying to describe. "Green" is what most people would define them as, the pair of eyes Tim is watching so closely. The eyes aren't watching him, though, happily looking at anything else, but Tim is used to that. He's content conjuring up images to match the verdant shade instead: It's one of those rare cool colors that somehow feels warm and inviting, maybe like jade, weathered and softened by age. Tim pauses thoughtfully.  _Jade_ , he decides, daring to run a few fingers behind the cat's ears. The eyes flicker to him for just an instant before resettling on the view outside the glass patio doors.

It's a stray that comes by every once in a while. Mom and Dad aren't home long enough to notice the new tufts of fur that traverse the floors like tumbleweeds, and who knows where the spare chicken goes? Tim certainly doesn't.

The cat nips at the tips of his fingers, trying to catch them between soft paws. Tim's used to this game by now, so he plays along as his gaze flits to the clock on the wall. His stomach's been doing flips all morning, all last night too. He's got another ten minutes.

Tim takes a deep breath, leaning back on his hands and appreciating the morning sunbeams sprinkling across his skin. It's a nice morning in September, the kind that still feels like summer with ocean skies and cotton ball clouds framing pre-Autumn leaves. But today's not summer anymore: It's a new day.

A new start.

"I'm gonna have a good time," Tim promises the cat lounging in front of his crossed legs. A tail flicks. "Yeah," Tim nods, "today's gonna be good. All that's left to do is go."

It's nothing major, not the end of the world or anything. But Tim can't fight off the nerves that are building. They're collecting in his stomach one by one like coins in a piggy bank, and to be honest, he's almost expecting that he's going to break open right there on the floor. He holds himself together well enough, though—Self-control is something that's expected for someone of high society, a fact he's come to realize over his five years of life. So, Tim shoves the anxiety down and goes through a mental check-list of all the items he bought the other day: pencils, erasers, scissors, art supplies. It's all there, everything he'd need for a first day of school. He runs over the list about fifty times, but he still feels like something's missing.

Two people are missing.

That's what it is.

Tim sighs and returns to scratching satin-soft ears, fingers running across tabby fur as he tallies the stripes. They mingle and mesh too much to really be countable, so he quickly gives up and begins tracing the bark of a sugar maple outside with his eyes. "It'll be fine," Tim tries again, desperately working to convince himself. If he says it sure enough, it's as if Mom's the one here whispering honeyed bromides to him, and he tells himself that makes the words more believable. "I'll fit in and have a good teacher and make lots of friends and…" Tim's expression falls. "You're not even listening, are you?"

The cat bats at another one of his fingers, proving his point. Patches of grey fur are growing up around the wood floor like grass as the animal squirms onto its back to get a better shot at capturing Tim's hand.

"It's alright," Tim exhales, retracting his fingers. "I should probably get going anyway." Tim pushes himself to a stand, brushing at the excess fur on his jeans as he swipes his backpack off the floor. On his way out the door, he spies his reflection in the mirror down the hall, himself short enough that nothing but the top half of his forehead is visible. Standing on his tiptoes only gets him to eye level with his reflection, turns out, and Tim hopes he's not going to be the shortest in his class. Is that something other kids notice? He won't be teased, will he?

Immediately, all of his flaws are visible, laid bare in a way no one else would ever spot. No one but him.

Tim's hands are instantly in his hair, struggling to tame it into something more respectable. That's not something that's possible, really: His hair's stuck at an awkward length where it's too long to look styled but too short to look intentional. When was the last time he had it cut? Five trips ago, he guesses. Not two months ago, not eight weeks ago. Five trips.

Is it sad that Mom and Dad's adventures are how he keeps track of time anymore?

Tim's hands fall back to his sides. They hastily shift to clutch the straps of his backpack. He doesn't even know what to do with them, the appendages an extra weight that he's not sure how to handle, but he's fighting off the urge to shove them into his pockets. That's not a polite pose, he's been told.

"Alright," Tim mutters to the door. "Here goes nothing."

A small mewl reminds him he's still got company. Tim's eyes drift downward to the expectant animal sitting at his feet, tail swishing behind it like a tide. "Oh, right," Tim quickly excuses, cracking open the door to let the cat free. It slips out smooth as water, and Tim's back by himself in the foyer. He's fighting off the weird urge to call the animal back, to ask if it won't be here when he comes home, because suddenly, it becomes painfully apparent that he's by himself. No one will be here when he gets back.

Tim throws a hopeless glance over his shoulder, but all that greets him are the groans of a settling house, a few fans whirring in the other rooms that he's not bothering to turn off. It's a nice thing to come home to, gentle wind and four blades that stir the cat fur still on the floor, so Tim always leaves the fans be.

It's better than coming home to nothing.

Tim grips the door handle for another minute. He'll be late if he stays, but he's holding out hope for Mom and Dad to come bustling through the backdoor, luggage stacked like flapjacks while the two of them chatter about whatever things they saw during their time in Italy. They won't be back for a few more days. Tim knows that, but he continues to clutch the cool metal burning his fingers. The handle's starting to warm, telling Tim he's stayed longer than he should, so he pulls the door open wide enough for himself to ease through.

"I'll have a good day," Tim reminds himself, because no one else will, and he closes the door behind him.

* * *

A flash flickers, the blinding kind that makes Tim wince. The shot's probably going to turn out bad, and Tim's silently praying there won't be a retake; he's not used to this kind of attention.

"It's really not that big of a deal," Tim manages through the embarrassment. He's betting his face is bright red, but Alfred's politely not mentioning it. The man's eyes are twinkling with amusement, anyway.

"Of course, it's a 'big deal,'" Alfred counters, placing the camera on the kitchen table. ( _Finally_.) "High school is a new phase of life," the man continues. "It's a milestone of sorts."

Tim runs a hand through his hair, flattered smile betraying him. "I've been going to school for ten years already, Alfred. Heck, this one's middle and high school are even combined: It's still the same building."

"Humor an old man, Timothy. These years go by faster than one would think." Sparkling eyes turn to the other person in the room. "Wouldn't you agree, sir?"

"They do," Bruce grunts mechanically from his spot at the kitchen table. His eyes are focused on the newspaper in front of him, a mug of much-needed coffee at hand, so it's not hard to guess that the man hasn't heard a single word. It's a spaciness that Tim attributes to the all-nighter they just pulled. (Tim feels pretty close to death warmed over himself.) But regardless, Alfred looks pleased at the automatic agreement. It's probably something he's trained into Bruce over the years, and the realization is enough to make Tim crack a full smile. They're a weird family, but somehow, they make it work. Tim can live with that. Well, honestly? He doesn't think he could ever live without them.

"We'd best be going soon," Alfred reminds, eyes on his watch. "Don't want to be late."

"Right," Tim answers as he readjusts the straps to his backpack and sticks his hands in the pocket of his sweatshirt. They're almost out the door when a voice comes.

"Have a good day at school."

Tim's head whirls back to find Bruce still at the table, eyes glued to the newspaper as he takes another swig of coffee. It's as if the comment wasn't anything ground-breaking, something normal and expected. It really isn't that special, but to Tim…

A few seconds pass before Bruce looks up to find Tim still there in the doorway. The man sends a quirked eyebrow, harmless and curious, and it's only then that Tim realizes he's been zoning out in front of the door. "Ye—yeah!" Tim hurries to cover, "same to you. Uh, I hope you have a good day. At work, I mean. Not at school. Obviously."

He could slap himself.

It's a good thing Bruce is impervious to awkwardness, the whole exchange resulting in nothing more than the man returning his attention to whatever article he was absorbed in. "I'll see you after school, then," Bruce says over his coffee. "Clayface is still out there, so keep your wits about you in the meantime."

The mention of vigilante work helps Tim snap back into character. "We'll catch him, Bruce. Don't worry." It's what kept them up all night, after all, and those cases are only a matter of time and determination; they'll crack it.

Bruce takes a considering sip from his mug. "We will," he agrees as he sets it back down.

"Timothy," Alfred prompts innocently. Tim turns to notice the butler's face is graced by a quiet smile, like he's been reading Tim's thoughts the whole time and is happy with what he's seen. Thankfully, Alfred says nothing more than, "We don't want to catch traffic."

"Right, right," Tim's quick to acquiesce and follow behind him, but not before calling out something to the man still seated at the kitchen table. "See you after school!"

"After school," Bruce agrees, attention still claimed by newsprint, but—

It's someone to come home to.

Tim likes the sound of that.


End file.
